


Time

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Still plagued, Maeglin doesn’t understand how Glorfindel can be so kind.





	Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hauntedpoem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for hauntedpoem’s “13. “You can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen, cause guess what? It did!” Glorfindel/Maeglin” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He _wants it_ all night, and as soon as the feast ends, Maeglin makes a beeline for the guest of honour. In all his years newly wrought in Imladris, nothing’s made his skin crawl like tonight’s banquet, held simply to celebrate their favourite conquering hero. The halfling guest of Lord Elrond devised a new song to summarize his remembered deeds, and the minstrels sang it long past the setting sun, while speech after speech came to announce all the _good_ Glorfindel’s since done for the world. It seems slaying a Balrog wasn’t enough. He’s beloved for _all things_ , and he took it all with glowing humility, smiling and bowing and graciously answering toasts. Maeglin’s sick of it.

Maeglin’s sick of everything. Glorfindel is always garnering attention for one thing or another—his looks, his skills, even his wretched voice no better than a crow’s. But usually, the insipid fans are easier to avoid. Tonight, Maeglin was assaulted by them, and he had to sit there and watch all eyes on a single soldier who should but will never quite be _his_. Things are never how he wants them to be.

Perhaps that’s why the Valar renewed his life and expelled him from Mandos’ Halls, sent him here to suffer, to see the destruction he wrought. He’d thought, when he’d first gazed upon the heir of the Golden Flower, that Glorfindel was to be the one to administer his punishment. Indeed, Glorfindel is the cruelest one of all.

Because when Maeglin finally catches up to Glorfindel, snags the sleeve of his swan-white robes and jerks him into the nearest alcove, Glorfindel only smiles fondly. Maeglin meets it with a sneer, thinly hiding his distain, and quietly seethes, “Do you remember now?”

“I remember much,” Glorfindel replies, though it’s a lie, Maeglin knows it is—he must have shielded himself from so much of the truth. Otherwise, how could he stand to see Maeglin again? How could he bear to be alone like this, tucked away from the main hall, behind sloping pillars of rotting wood nowhere near Gondolin’s fallen splendor? With Maeglin’s back to the wall and Glorfindel before him, Glorfindel blocks most of the candlelight and what rays of the stars slip in through the windows. They halo his silhouette, making him all the more ethereal. He almost seems a Maia sometimes.

But a Maia would not forget. And Glorfindel _must_. But he heard it all again tonight, in one retelling after the next, of the fair city burning high and only a few, straggling survivors left to recall all the atrocities. Glorfindel says nothing more of it, and Maeglin, frustrated beyond words, pushes his mouth fiercely into Glorfindel’s. 

Glorfindel kisses him back with a tenderness that makes his stomach curdle. Maeglin surges forward, only to pull Glorfindel back into him, hands running up to fist violently in Glorfindel’s golden hair, but even when Glorfindel rises to his own intensity, it isn’t the crushing fire that Maeglin wants. Glorfindel moves into passion, his tongue sliding into Maeglin’s mouth, but his teeth never scrape, and he doesn’t back Maeglin into the wall and _ravage_ Maeglin like Maeglin dreams of. He wants it to _hurt_. It should hurt. He doesn’t understand how he could ever heal if he doesn’t feel that. His death was too quick for him. Glorfindel robs him of pain in life. He stumbles back against the wall, taking Glorfindel with him, but Glorfindel only wraps gentle arms around his waist and soothingly rubs at his hips.

Maeglin parts them, panting, and hisses, “Fuck me, damnit.” The words are beneath him. He sounds like a spitting dwarf, ones he’d enjoy the company of more than this. Glorfindel only smiles sadly at him. Glorfindel’s never fucked him. Only _made love to him_ , even the first time, after heated words and nothing more, when Maeglin half expected Glorfindel to slit his throat in his sleep. Glorfindel doesn’t speak harshly to him anymore. Glorfindel seems to _pity_ him, and that’s far worse. 

Glorfindel ducks to kiss him again, warm across his lips. He mewls into it and reaches back to cup Glorfindel’s ass, which earns him a chuckle. It makes him fear that Glorfindel thinks he’s _easy_ and finds it amusing. He jerks his hand away, only to push at Glorfindel’s shoulders. He wrenches his head aside and mutters, “You cannot do this.”

“Kiss you?” Glorfindel teases, with that horribly fair attitude of his. He doesn’t even have the good grace to reek of wine. He’s so insufferably _perfect_. He pecks Maeglin’s cheek and murmurs, “I thought you wanted me to take you. You are a difficult beast to please, Maeglin, try as I might to oblige...”

“I do not want you to oblige me,” Maeglin tries to explain, though it only earns him an infuriating lift of one golden brow. “I wish you to _remember_ it all and to... to act accordingly for it, instead of leaving me the only one in this misery! You cannot keep pretending it did not happen, because it _did_! And I am constantly living in it, while you traipse about for your little half-elven lord in a home a mere tenth of what your former one was! And _I_ did that! You should be furious with me! You should loathe me! You should...” He doesn’t even know. He’s just so _furious_ , and it parches his throat, blurs his vision. Or perhaps there are tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Glorfindel doesn’t even have the decency to shout. He merely frowns, and finally steps back, out of Maeglin’s trembling arms.

After a long moment of thunderous silence, Glorfindel answers softly, “That was a lifetime ago. ...And I could not live in the pain that you do. I have indeed felt much sorrow, but that peredhel lord has taught me to heal. I would heal you too, if only you would let me, for I have long since forgiven you, and I recognize now, distanced as I am, that you were not the horrid monster some still paint you as, but only a frightened child who never truly felt like he belonged.”

Maeglin is... speechless. Glorfindel’s words cut him so much deeper than the rough fuck he’d wanted ever could have. His tremours have grown greater for a new reason. Glorfindel gives him a sad, heartbreaking smile that he can’t bear. 

He pushes Glorfindel hard, hoping to send Glorfindel stumbling back, maybe even to the floor, but Glorfindel is infinitely sturdy and doesn’t so much as flinch. Glorfindel whispers, “We are from a different world, you and I. But we have a chance to bring what good we once knew into this one, and I would see that you are given a better chance this time.”

It occurs to Maeglin, suddenly and painfully, that Glorfindel still doesn’t understand. Glorfindel can hear the tales, but they’re sung from survivors, and no could ever know the depth of Maeglin’s sins. They don’t understand all the planning he did, all the cunning he employed, with wisdom far beyond his youth. He’s hardly innocent. It doesn’t matter that Glorfindel doesn’t seem to be claiming that he is. 

He breaks, his eyes crunching shut and tears beading up around them. He covers his face in his hands to hide it, but he can already feel Glorfindel wrapping around him. Glorfindel pulls him close, cradling him near, and murmurs, “ _Shh_. It will be well, my little mole. For mine you have become, and I guard what is mine with all the fire you sought to rain upon yourself. That is where the true strength lies.”

Maeglin makes some sort of garbled response that makes no sense even to his own ears. Glorfindel pets him gently. Glorfindel’s always held him so gently, even that first time, when they’d each shouted themselves too hoarse to scream. He’s never had that kind of strength.

Glorfindel pecks his forehead, and he thinks, for the first time, that maybe he could learn. 

He lets Glorfindel hold him, until there are no tears left to cry, and all that’s left is a shaken kiss and Glorfindel’s arms around him.


End file.
